A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

Yesterday, DEH and I were extras on a photo shoot, and in between takes, we had a lot of time to speculate about what we should do with our lives. Given that it’s pretty clear I’m not going to make serious money doing ordinary things, like writing articles, I mused for a while about erotica novels I could potentially write.

“I would be good at it,” I said to DEH. “I could be like, ‘And then, as he lay there moaning, she kissed every single hair on his torso before making her way down to his throbbing member, which she then thrust inside her.’”

“You could call it ‘Seventeen Hairs,’” DEH suggested. 

“You’re shadowing Stacy!” the photographer yelled at me.

“Your moustache is off-putting,” said a crew member to DEH.

In the end, they chose to keep the two of us the longest, because in the shot, everyone was supposed to look like they were having the time of their lives.

If you’re looking for something awesome to read this afternoon, check out DEH’s feature on Bjarne Melgaard in ArtReview, which begins:

“Bjarne Melgaard and I have something in common: we both love dick. In fact, writing on Melgaard is a very convenient excuse to write about my favorite male member as well as one of my favorite pastimes, gay sex…”

As a writer, it can be really hard to be friends with other writers, because when they write something great, it makes me jealous. Especially when, like today, I can’t even figure out a clever way to end this fucking sentence. 

I often feel that way about work via my main gay and all around bff David Everitt Howe, who is more of an art critic than I’ll ever be, and also much, much better dressed. 

The way he writes about art—full of witty quips, critical theory, and references to how he wants to fuck so-and-so—is something that I definitely envy.

For instance, in his catalog essay for “Every Inch A Man,” a performance exhibition by Bryan Zanisnik that he curated at the Abrons Art Center, where he is the resident curator theorist or some high-brow shit like that, he opens with:

“Bryan Zanisnik’s performance Every Inch A Man is so hyperbolically titled it begs the questions: is any inch of Bryan Zanisnik a man?”

It’s just a great way to open an essay. And it gets better from there. I would transcribe more, but I’m late to blow dry my hair.

Anyway, the reason why I’m writing this is because he gave me the catalog for the show last night, and I ended up reading the entire thing, on the fucking F train no less, and trust me, that alone is significant enough to mention. Who reads fucking catalog essays? No one. Not unless they are a lazy senior in college who needs some easy quotes for an art history term paper.

But I’ll always read DEH’s, because they’ll always be good.

Check out the exhibition at Abrons, and read more of DEH’s work here. 

Last night. DEH performed his own rendition of “White On White” at 47 Canal, while Mr. R drank from a 12 pack of Budweiser he bought across the street, and Blara cackled loudly to break all silences, thereby voiding all references to John Cage, the man of the evening.